Chapter 4
Mason
A red mark adorns the skin next to her belly button after I bring an end to her torment. I put the teapot back on the tray, as the sound of her screaming voice still echoes through the room.
It is music to my ears.
The tingling that remains on my fingers is nothing compared to the pain I must have inflicted on her by pressing the piping hot porcelain against her soft belly—but I’m not the one who asked for punishment.
She did ask for it.
Just like I thought she would.
Her petite body heaves under erratic breaths as she processes the aftermath of what I did to her, sweat pearling at her temple and her face contorted in pain, while she yanks at the constraints around her wrists. She’s not looking at me, but keeps her gaze locked to the ceiling, whimpering as she fights to prevent herself from crying. Still, a single tear finds its way down her cheek, slowly traveling across the flushed skin before it gets lost in a strand of hair.
I watch in silence, captivated by the beauty of it all. Watching her go through the waves of receding afterpain is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever been allowed to witness—and I know it will only get better from here on. Pain suits her, and it seems that she can handle it well enough for what is to come.
“So, let me ask you again,” I say, placing my hand back on the teapot handle. “Will you be a good girl for me, if I untie your hands so you can taste this delicious tea I made for you?”
A crease emerges between her brows before she closes her eyes and suggests a subtle nod.
“I want to hear you say it,” I insist, my fingers already closing around the handle. “Will you be a good girl?”
She groans and opens her eyes to look at me, before she hisses: “Yes.”
It’s just a whisper, but a response that will suffice—for now.
I put the tray down on the floor and out of reach, before I unlock the cuffs around her wrists one by one. I’m prepared for her to launch a pointless attack at me as soon as her hands are free, but she keeps her promise to remain calm. Her fear of imminent pain has shown to be the fastest shortcut to obedience.
She flinches when I place my hand on her shoulder to help her sit up, but I only tighten my hold on her, forcing myself closer so I can support her properly. She lets it happen, but her body is stiff like a plank, her shoulders up to her ears and the strain visible down to the tips of her fingers.
As soon as she’s in a sitting position, she does something that surprises me. I’m still hovering over her, my face close to hers when she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath through the nose. I freeze, anticipating for her to scream or punch me, but instead she seems to be taking in my scent?
She opens her eyes and meets mine with a puzzled expression, as if I’d just shared surprising news with her. But it’s just a fleeting moment, gone as soon as it appeared, and she lowers her gaze again.
I let go of her and get up from the bed, noticing that she doesn’t try to cover herself, even now that her hands are free. It would be silly, considering I’ve already seen everything, but it would be a natural reaction in her situation. She doesn’t seem as fazed by the fact that she’s completely naked as most people would be—except for when my eyes rested on her core a little too long.
I saw the scars on her inner thighs when I undressed her. They are obviously remnants of her self-injuring actions, but so pale and faint that they must have happened before she was admitted to the ward. I couldn’t find any other scars on her body, but I still worry that maybe the diagnosis I saw written in her file wasn’t as far off as I thought it was. It would put everything I planned for her in jeopardy.
Grace refuses to look at me, keeping her head down while I pour her a cup of tea and give it to her.
“Careful, it’s hot,” I warn her as I present the beverage. “As you well know.”
It takes a moment before she reacts and reluctantly accepts the tea. Holding it with both hands, she brings the cup up to her lips and closes her eyes while she takes in its smell. She blows across the watery surface, before trying a cautious sip. A hint of a smile plays at the corner of her mouth and her shoulders drop visibly, when she allows herself to relax for just a bit.
But she doesn’t say a word and doesn’t even acknowledge my presence when she opens her eyes again.
“I thought you’d like it,” I say, as I watch her take another sip.
She continues to ignore me and keeps her focus locked to the tea.
They don’t serve this kind of tea at the ward, but maybe I should suggest they do. The reviving power of ginger could be beneficial to many patients, if only to give them the invigorating hug from inside that so many of them need. Including this girl.
When I first saw her there, she was sitting on a windowsill by herself, staring out the window with a weary smile on her face—most likely caused by prescription drugs. Something about her caught my eyes. The allure was so strong that it made me stop dead in my tracks to study her ethereal beauty from afar. She didn’t look sad or troubled per se, but her pain was still visible. A pain born out of unfulfilled yearning. It was obvious that she’s suffering from a lack in her life, but I couldn’t tell of what kind.
She empties her tea and hands the cup back to me, still without meeting my inquiring gaze.
“Did you like it?” I ask.
She nods.
“Would you like more?”
She hesitates for a moment, before she lifts her head to look at me. Her dark eyes are clear and more awake than they were when I first saw her at the ward. I know that they lowered the dosage of her medication, because I was the one who got the ball rolling on that. She doesn’t need pills to get better, at least not in the quantities they were prescribed to her.
“Why am I here?” She wants to know. Her voice is low, but neither hoarse nor insecure—and surprisingly calm, given the circumstances.
“Why don’t you answer my question before asking some of your own?” I retort. “Would you like some more tea?”
A frown scurries across her face, but she nods. “Yes, please.”
I regard her with a smile, inclined to praise her good manners, but decide against it. She’s doing well so far, but not well enough to deserve praise.
A faint “Thank you” leaves her lips when I hand her another cup of tea and take my seat next to her on the bed. She studies me from the corner of her eye while she brings the tea up to her mouth, one eyebrow slightly arched as a silent reminder that I still owe her an answer.
“Why do you think you’re here, Grace?” I ask, instead of satisfying her curiosity.
She takes note of the fact that I know her name, narrowing her eyes for a split second while surprise mixes in with the wariness in her expression. But she decides to let it pass without comment.
“I don’t know,” she says, sounding exhausted. “Some fucked up new therapy they’re trying on me?”
She pointedly looks down at the red mark on her belly, before throwing a reproachful look at me. Her response is enchantingly close to the truth, and tells me that she has noticed me at the ward, too. Of course she has, given how many times I was there to learn more about her. We never exchanged words, but our eyes met more than once, albeit only for a split second, because she kept turning away each time.
But this has nothing to do with the ward or the therapy that was prescribed to her. They don’t know she’s with me—and they’ll never find out.
“Why am I here?” She probes again, impatience lacing her words with an urgency that wasn’t there before.
And this time, she does deserve an answer.
“You’re here, because I want you here,” I say, as I lean forward to touch her face. “You are mine now.”
And just as the words leave my lips and the tip of my index finger graces along her cheek, she flinches and I finally see a flicker of real terror flitting across her pretty face